The bells chimed 3pm as I, Seb, Sally and Manny chased down the back street, laughing. The figure at the far end made us stop dead. Taller than any man, slender form cloaked by material that absorbed sunlight, it had a face none of us could later recall, although it extended a skinny index finger to unsmiling lips. The sun went in, we glanced up, and then the figure was gone. Cautiously we approached, found only a black cat sunning its belly.

Seb returned there the next day, a car hit him, and he died promptly on the 3pm chimes.

Auntie waited by the window all winter. Her drool left frozen dark brown streaks as she scratched at thick frosted glass, her yellowed teeth gnashing. Weeks passed. Auntie watched. As I reluctantly chewed up my last shred of beef jerky, and penultimate multivitamin, birds began to squawk and chirp outside. The pane had turned from grey to deep blue. Curiously, I squinted beyond. The snow was dotted with green shoots, and Auntie had become a pile of meat-flecked bones under the window. Excited, I finally prised my way out of the cabin, to explore what was left of the world.

Thank you for reading, comments are welcome!

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It could transform into a balloon, a small dog, a tree, a copy of the Mona Lisa, or, this time, a small stone hovel in the Scottish wilderness. It seemed so innocent, and might have stayed there for centuries, posing for cute photos in a picturesque setting, eating hikers and foxes out in the wild, but it got unlucky. A lady reported it chewing up her husband and her best friend while she’d peed, luckily out of its sight. Of course we had to fight and destroy it, the battle ended by flamethrowers. We emptied the bones from its belly.

Warning: This went a little dark, I reckon – I saw that huge glossy shadow in the lower section and was totally drawn into it….

Prompt from Emily L Gant

Keep your eyes peeled, girl.

They move between dark places when the shadows shift. Between buildings. Inside homes.

My neighbour was left with a cave for a face.

They spread in shadows, their domain increasing as storms get fiercer, knocking out power, soaking firewood. They caused that too, of course. Moment they landed here the bastards were blotting out our sun.

So never blink. Be vigilant and you’ll catch a lifesaving glimpse. A spidery leg here, a scuttle at the corner of your eye. Shoot the bastards.

Keep ‘em peeled, girl. Here’s a razorblade. I can help, if you’d like?

Almost alone on a semi-deserted junk world, Kaylee badly missed her beloved Benji-dog.

But she’d finally found a new friend within the scrap heap.

The dusty robot gratefully consumed all the batteries she’d scrounged. He sucked thoughtfully on each one, his red headlamp eyes growing brighter, and his spiny fingers twitched and rusty claws flexed.

“KB is ready,” KB finally announced in a scratchy, staccato voice.

“So we can play?” she said.

“Yes, Kaylee.” said KB. “What shall we play?”

Razor sharp teeth chomped the last cell.

“I have a great game,” she grinned, “Huntin’ the varmints who murdered Benji!”

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Find more Friday Fiction 100 word stories below!

]]>https://joannakneilson.wordpress.com/2016/03/03/almost-alone-on-a-semi-deserted-junk-world-kaylee-badly-missed-her-beloved-benji-dog/feed/10copyight-sean-fallonhauntedeyeballcopyight-sean-fallonFriday Fiction 100 words: 10 April 2015 – The Broken Trainsethttps://joannakneilson.wordpress.com/2015/04/10/friday-fiction-100-words-10-april-2015-the-broken-trainset/
https://joannakneilson.wordpress.com/2015/04/10/friday-fiction-100-words-10-april-2015-the-broken-trainset/#commentsFri, 10 Apr 2015 12:08:10 +0000http://joannakneilson.wordpress.com/?p=895]]>So, this 100 word story isn’t exactly the same as the prompt, but it has definitely been inspired by it. No idea where it came from, only that the words ‘broken trainset’ were the loudest as i brainstormed. I recommend listening to Ray Bradbury on writing, the guy knows how to find the stories hiding in your brain. Oh yes.

So, here you go

As always thanks to Rochelle for hosting this 100 word inspiration on her blog. Also please follow the blue frog at the bottom of the page if you’d like to read other 100 word stories by fellow Fictioneers.

train Picture by Jennifer Pendergast

The Broken Trainset

Shattered, I broke the little engine laughing at me beneath his ripped track. I stomped and stomped the tiny chimney, crushing Thomas and tubby Controller, smashed them brutally underfoot. I snapped and crushed, scattering miniature railway onlookers, terrorising all with my giant’s tread. The rest was a red mist until I dropped my beer can, slumped in sofa.

Blood dripped through my sock. The sitting room wrecked. It had been a long night. I hurt all over. Now I couldn’t even flog the fucking trainset on ebay. I was gonna get my legs broke. Twisted Thomas grinned at me – I.O.U.

]]>https://joannakneilson.wordpress.com/2015/04/10/friday-fiction-100-words-10-april-2015-the-broken-trainset/feed/1hauntedeyeballtrian Picture by JSurrealism and foodhttps://joannakneilson.wordpress.com/2015/04/06/surrealism-and-food/
https://joannakneilson.wordpress.com/2015/04/06/surrealism-and-food/#respondMon, 06 Apr 2015 19:15:04 +0000http://joannakneilson.wordpress.com/2015/04/06/surrealism-and-food/The Pink Pigeon Post: Grandmother Moorhead’s Aromatic Kitchen, image from the Telegraph article, ‘Leonora Carrington: last of the great Surrealists’. Today being the anniversary of the birthday of Leonora Carrington, one of my favourite British artists from the 20th century, I thought I might have another look at one of the first paintings…]]>

Because I can’t believe I’ve only just heard about Leonora’s work over the last couple of months, and this is a fabulous article contrasting her approach (which feels contemporary with Frida Kahlo meets Chagall) compared with the more ‘macho’ surrealists.

Today being the anniversary of the birthday of Leonora Carrington, one of my favourite British artists from the 20th century, I thought I might have another look at one of the first paintings of hers that I saw, at a 2010 exhibition entitled ‘Surreal Friends’, at Pallant House Gallery in Chichester. Here are some points of contemplation:

Leonora’s paintings show “the transformation the feminine domestic sphere into a site of magical power”, and “the transit of food from the kitchen to the table to consumption was…likened to alchemical processes of distillation and transformation” (Susan L. Aberth, Leonora Carrington: Surrealism, Alchemy and Art).

The redness of the room suggests activity, heat, and passion.

Three witches stand within a magic circle drawn on the floor, preparing ingredients. Three heads of garlic are positioned at various points on…

]]>https://joannakneilson.wordpress.com/2015/04/06/surrealism-and-food/feed/0hauntedeyeballFriday Fictioneer: 3rd April 2015 – Learning the hard wayhttps://joannakneilson.wordpress.com/2015/04/03/friday-fictioneer-3rd-april-2015-learning-the-hard-way/
https://joannakneilson.wordpress.com/2015/04/03/friday-fictioneer-3rd-april-2015-learning-the-hard-way/#commentsFri, 03 Apr 2015 16:40:04 +0000http://joannakneilson.wordpress.com/?p=882]]>Wow, this is almost becoming a habit, and we know habits are good, right? Thanks to Rochelle for running this weekly event.

Several possibilities were pondered for this strange doorway, but I’m reasonably pleased with what came up.

This week’s photo prompt by Lauren Moscato, submitted by Amy Rees

Learning the Hard Way

Serena and her daughter, Ruby, were arguing. Bernard watched with interest from his porch. “I can’t do it!” Ruby clutched her schoolbag, shaking her head. The mother, clearly at her wits end, shoved her right out the door. The little girl plummeted toward the pavement several metres below. Bernard’s heart nearly burst in horror. Ruby’s terrified scream split the morning air. Then came the reassuring swoosh of furious wings. Ruby crowed above him. “I did it!” and swooped gleefully above him, laughing, her mother close behind.

Also, follow the blue froggie below for fantastic 100 word stories written by other ‘Friday Fictioneers’:

]]>https://joannakneilson.wordpress.com/2015/04/03/friday-fictioneer-3rd-april-2015-learning-the-hard-way/feed/9hauntedeyeballCOMMENTARY: The Art World’s Self-Serving Lieshttps://joannakneilson.wordpress.com/2015/03/31/commentary-the-art-worlds-self-serving-lies/
https://joannakneilson.wordpress.com/2015/03/31/commentary-the-art-worlds-self-serving-lies/#commentsTue, 31 Mar 2015 14:32:00 +0000http://joannakneilson.wordpress.com/2015/03/31/commentary-the-art-worlds-self-serving-lies/THE REMODERN REVIEW: image by Scott Adams BEING SMOTHERED IN THEIR OWN TANGLED WEBS: BBC News Roger Scruton’s “How Modern Art Became Trapped by its Urge to Shock” Key quote from the article, a summary of how the contemporary art world conspires to inflate inferior productions and specious reputations: “Originality requires learning, hard work,…]]>

“William Blake, one of the greatest artists of all time, understood the connection. “The foundation of empire is art and science remove them or degrade them and the empire is no more — empire follows art and not vice versa as Englishmen suppose.” Empire in this sense doesn’t refer to a specific form of government but more so a culture, the authority of a way of thought, a sense of shared values. Our post modern friends would refer to this as a hegemony.”

Key quote from the article, a summary of how the contemporary art world conspires to inflate inferior productions and specious reputations:

“Originality requires learning, hard work, the mastery of a medium and – most of all – the refined sensibility and openness to experience that have suffering and solitude as their normal cost.

“To gain the status of an original artist is therefore not easy. But in a society where art is revered as the highest cultural achievement, the rewards are enormous. Hence there is a motive to fake it. Artists and critics get together in order to take themselves in, the artists posing as the originators of astonishing breakthroughs, the critics posing as the penetrating judges of the true avant-garde.

]]>https://joannakneilson.wordpress.com/2015/03/31/commentary-the-art-worlds-self-serving-lies/feed/1hauntedeyeballFriday Fictioneer: When Ben Burned Down the Bandstandhttps://joannakneilson.wordpress.com/2015/03/27/friday-fictioneer-when-ben-burned-down-the-bandstand/
https://joannakneilson.wordpress.com/2015/03/27/friday-fictioneer-when-ben-burned-down-the-bandstand/#commentsFri, 27 Mar 2015 13:22:55 +0000http://joannakneilson.wordpress.com/?p=867]]>A strangely psychotic piece this week – think it was partly prompted and crystalised by everyone’s shock, including my own, at the hideous air crash where the pilot apparently very calmly flew himself and 150 other people into a mountain – for no good reason (all will probably be revealed, I suppose). Still, fucking unbearable to think about. Shudder.

This act of senseless brutality freaked me out and filtered its way into my story, though it’s also still inspired by the band picture. Apologies to the band people btw At least this guy has a clear motive for his dreadful actions, however dreadfully weak.

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By Dave Stewart

Bandstand Burn

When Ben burned down the bandstand, he didn’t seem the chap. He’d always been a nice guy, we’d never heard him snap. But his one true love was music, and he had longed to play. But talent at it he had none, and the band drove him away. We saw him sulking in the park, although he waved and smiled. A light had gone behind his eyes, his grin it scared my child. We don’t know where he found the fuel, but he waited til the fayre. Then one match, poof, and up it went, and discord burned the air.

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